Loyalty, Cowardice, and Love
by DoctorStonegarden
Summary: Three scenarios that really could have made 4x13 much more interesting. Canon pairings only.   Love: Tristan lays Isolde to rest in a certain lake, and discerns a few interesting facts about Merlin...
1. Loyalty

**Loyalty:**

_In Which King Arthur Pendragon Pays Witness to a Confrontation Between Two Traitors of Differing_ _Kinds, and Ruminates on a Metaphysical Concept Held Dear by Many Men, Himself Included_

**X**

_Don't do anything stupid._

That was what Arthur had said to Merlin.

So of course, Merlin was going to do something stupid.

Arthur knew this. This was Merlin he was talking about, after all. Stupidity ran right alongside brilliance in his bizarre mind.

So when Arthur went back after Merlin, it was no surprise when he heard the sound of running feet.

And it was also no surprise when - through a fissure between the chamber of the cave he was hidden in and another - he saw Merlin run into a dead end.

_Dammit, Merlin._

"Mer-lin!"

A mocking cry echoed down the tunnel, and a man Arthur would very much like to punch came into view. No-one but King Pra-_Arthur_ was allowed to use that inflection on Merlin's name. And there was the whole betraying him in favour of his evil half-sister thing, but-

"Merlin!"

Safely hidden, Arthur watched as his manservant's jaw tightened, and turned around to face Agravaine.

"Where's Arthur?" the traitor uncle demanded.

The once-king was tempted to stand up and shout "I'm right here!" and leap to Merlin's rescue.

But that wasn't what Merlin would want. Merlin would want Arthur to stay hidden and look after his own prattish backside instead of Merlin's bony, insubordinate one. Merlin would want Arthur to live to fight another day, and though not leaping out and rescuing his hapless manser-_friend_ sent pangs of self-loathing through Arthur's already broken heart, he knew that was what Merlin would want, and that in this case, he would be right.  
>If Merlin performed his duty as a friend and a servant – as Arthur knew he would – he would keep his silence, and Agravaine would kill him. Arthur was wounded, and would not be able to defeat his uncle and however many men he had with him even in peak physical condition – and in his current position, Arthur could only see his uncle and one other, but given the veritable stampede that had reached his ears, there was no telling how many men his uncle had with him.<p>

Arthur had always listened to Merlin – though he rarely followed his advice – and the little part of him that nudged him when his idiotic, wise friend was right now prodded him sharply and glared.

He would respect Merlin's wishes.

He would escape Agravaine and these tunnels.

He would rally what forces loyal to Camelot remained.

He would get on his knees and beg before another king to get an army if he had to.

He would take Camelot back from Morgana.

If nothing else, he would do all this to avenge Merlin's imminent demise.

And because it was what Merlin would have wanted.

He would watch Merlin's noble sacrifice for his king and his friends and remember it. Merlin would be remembered as the hero he was. Arthur would see to it.

The useless, deposed king, who hadn't heeded the warnings when they came, could do that, at least.

All these thoughts were dashed aside as Merlin delivered a chilling warning.

Arthur had heard plenty of people telling him to use caution in his life. Merlin himself had urged its use more than once.

But in just two words that he'd heard many a time before, Merlin had succeeded in sending a chill down the former king's spine that had nothing to do with the freezing air of the tunnels.

"Be careful."

Arthur looked to his uncle, wondering if the traitor had felt the same thing.

It looked as though he had.

But then Agravaine remembered that he had a sword and men with similarly deadly implements, that Merlin didn't and was a scrawny farm boy backed into a corner.

"What are you talking about? Where's Arthur?"

Merlin remained silent, shifting from foot to foot, eyes shifting.

His face was half-cast in shadow, white and carved from the palest marble.

Arthur had seen that expression before; on his knights when dealing with over-confident trouble-makers and bandits armed with empty threats. He himself had worn that look.

It was a look that simply said _you-don't-know-who-you're-dealing-with-and-I-could-kill-you-so-easily-it-isn't-even-funny-and-that's-exactly-what-I'm-going-to-do-unless-you-piss-off_.

No-one could pull of that look convincingly without actually being capable of following through on the implied threat.

Merlin was wearing it, so he must be more dangerous than his ears would suggest.

Though how Merlin was going to make good on his silent promise was a mystery to Arthur.

"Tell me, now! Or I'll have to kill you."

Merlin remained silent for a moment, unreadable and deadly in the dim light. He shook his head.

"I don't think so."

_I'm not going to tell you, or you're not going to kill me? Or both? What is it, Merlin?_

Agravaine started forwards, and Arthur dearly wished he could do something.

Of course, he didn't have to.

Arthur would have quite liked to believe that Agravaine had tripped. Very hard. On something cylindrical, so he flew backwards.

But there was no mistaking the unnatural, bone-shattering flight that ended with his traitorous uncle on the floor and out of sight.

Or the coruscating flash of gold in Merlin's eyes.

Arthur's mind shut down for a few seconds, brought back to working order by a rushed intake of breath and a gleeful cry.

"You have magic!"

_Dammit, Merlin._

His brave, loyal, _traitorous_ manservant, who had moved forwards while Arthur had been trying to fervently deny that Merlin _had used magic!_ replied in a cool and level tone, drawn up to his full height, the master of the situation.

"I was born with it."

_Born with magic?_

Agravaine shuffled into Arthur's view, bent over and clutching at his back.

"So it's you… you're _Emrys_!"

"That is what the Druids call me."

And if the break in Merlin's stony mask was anything to go by, revealing a twinge of regret and resolution in his normally friendly blue eyes – now dark and cold – the identity of Emrys was one secret that Agravaine could not get away with alive.

"And you've been at court, all this time? At Arthur's side? How you've managed to deceive him!"

_Yes, rub it in._

"I am impressed, Merlin! Perhaps we're more alike than you think."

One traitor extended a hand towards the other.

Whatever Arthur had been thinking before, it went out of the proverbial window now.

How could Merlin, clearly a powerful sorcerer, resist an offer to join Morgana?

He did, though.

Merlin's hand snapped up, and Agravaine flinched back, nodding in understanding.

Then one traitor lunged at the other.

Merlin's hands both sprung upwards, as though to push away Agravaine, and push he did.

Arthur's treacherous uncle flew back from the deceiving servant, almost going head over heels in his flight.

With a sickening crack, Agravaine landed out of Arthur's sight. His final breath plumed in a white cloud above the rocks that hid his cooling body from Arthur's sight, and then there was silence.

And Merlin.

The alabaster mask Merlin's face had hardened into cracked a little around the edges.

Arthur was ready to jump out and scream and shout and demand answers and hurl accusations, until he took one look at Merlin's face.

How could he have ever doubted Merlin?

He hadn't liked this. Not one bit.

He had the look of a man who'd killed before, more than once, and hated it just as much as the first time.

No matter what else he was, Merlin was still Merlin.

He'd just killed for Arthur, something Arthur had no right to ask of him, and he'd hated it. He didn't need Arthur shouting at him. He looked like he needed a hug.

The king was just about to jump out and thank his manser-_friend_ and wax on about honour and loyalty or something, when Merlin turned and walked away.

His footsteps faded into the distance, and the tunnels were silent again.

Merlin was still Merlin, and Merlin was loyal.

**X**

Arthur surveyed the scene before him.

Agravaine had taken five men with him.

All of them were dead, their necks and no doubt other bones broken.

Merlin had killed five men without moving a muscle.

Agravaine was the sixth. He had – well, he hadn't been _lucky_. It was Merlin who had been lucky. If Agravaine hadn't survived the first spell and spoken with Merlin, Arthur would have jumped out and shaken his lying manservant to pieces.

So, Merlin was clearly powerful.

He'd said he was born with his powers; Morgana had only discovered hers in recent years. Was he as powerful as Morgana? Perhaps more?

That brought something else he'd said to mind.

Was Merlin a Druid? He had a Druidic name, which clearly meant something to Agravaine, and undoubtedly Morgana as well. Even if he wasn't a Druid, Arthur believed Merlin meant Camelot no harm. It made no sense to put up with Arthur's admittedly horrible behaviour when he could have simply killed him and avenged his kin.

Perhaps he had been protecting Arthur. Well, of course he had!

"_You don't know how many times I've saved your life."_

Gaius had said the bite of the Questing Beast was incurable; and yet, still Arthur breathed.

Cornelius Sigan wouldn't have just called off his gargoyles and gone back to napping in a crystal for eternity without putting up a fight.

Immortal armies didn't just explode into piles of ash of their own accord.

And the dragon… what had happened with the dragon?

Arthur didn't remember hitting it before he fell unconscious. Had Merlin killed it? Arthur was willing to believe that Merlin could be a Dragonlord, and had simply ordered the beast to leave. Did that mean he was somehow related to Balinor? It would make sense.

If the king had ventured out of the tunnels, he might have found an answer to that question, and the next that sprang to his mind.

And looking back at the six crumpled forms before him, Arthur couldn't help but think…

_What did you do to the rest of them, Merlin?_

Agravaine had been leading a force of hundreds; enough to surround Ealdor completely. And yet, he'd taken only five men that Arthur could see into the tunnels.

He listened for a few moments.

Nothing.

Merlin was long gone, and the rest of their little band was far ahead of him.

A group of mercenaries would make a lot of noise, and there was nothing but the faint flickering crackle of the torches on the cavern floor, no longer needed by the dead men beside them.

Well…

Arthur was no longer king of Camelot. As such, he could not technically arrest Merlin and haul him back for execution, and nor did he really feel inclined to. Secondly, Merlin seemed to have association with the Druids, and was perhaps a Druid himself. The Druids were peaceful and meant Camelot no harm. This Arthur knew, and it seemed that if Merlin was connected with the Druids then he probably meant no harm.

And thirdly, he'd demonstrated he was still himself; Arthur might have said that he didn't know Merlin anymore, but really, he knew all of Merlin now. Well, there was just the fact that he didn't have the faintest idea of the extent of what Merlin had done for him, but that was for another time.

He'd keep Merlin's secrets, until his future Court Sorcerer was ready to tell.

He would be as loyal to Merlin as Merlin had been to him. He would protect him.

**X**

Arthur knew swords. He'd grown up with them.

And so, right from the moment the feeling of soaring pride at having pulled _a sword out of a bloody great stone_ had faded, and he'd taken a look at the perfect blade in his hand, he knew that the legend Merlin had fed him about it being placed there by the Ancient King was a load of tripe.

It wasn't… _old_ enough. It just wasn't.

Back in the days of the first king of Camelot, swords had been sharp bits of metal with a hilt and a guard, and that was it.

They didn't have this gold chasing and fancy runic inscription or the curved guard or rounded, gilt pommel.

It was a fine sword, but there was no way in hell Arthur's distant ancestor had placed it there.

But had Merlin?

He knew where to find it. He'd led Arthur there as though he had walked the path a thousand times before. And of course, it was in a stone. Swords don't normally end up in stones, and Merlin was magic, but Merlin didn't know that Arthur knew that.

And then there was the fact that the blade itself was obviously magical.

As soon as it was free from the stone that it had been sealed point down in, something curled around Arthur's heart and refused to budge; the moment he raised the weapon into the air, he knew that no other sword was good enough, would never be as good as this one. He was connected to the blade forever, and it sang for him.

This blade would be loyal to him forever.

There was a fire hidden in that steel that shone like a still pond, a fire that burned eternally, unquenched and all-conquering. This was a weapon made for dominion, that promised it and lusted for it in equal measure.  
>Arthur felt that he could do anything with this sword.<p>

The sword was new, but its power was old, older than the trees sheltering the rock, and it tasted – if you could call an indescribable tingling above the roof of his mouth a taste – like fresh, cold air and pleasantly charred meat.

And there was something familiar in there as well – did lightning have a taste?

Because that, Arthur decided, without getting too creepy, was what Merlin tasted like. If Arthur could call a tingling sensation at the back of his head a sound, then it sounded like the Merlin-lightning in the sword was urging him on, but warning him of the dangers of this blade.

He must never let anyone else wield it again. This sword was made for him and him alone, and only evil could come of it being wielded by anyone else.

Something within the blade relented, and Arthur was treated to a hazy snatch of a pair of long-fingered hands and a tumbling view of a familiar room in Camelot, and a golden chalice spinning towards the ground, blood casting a long stain on sandy flagstones. The final image in this quartet was of a man previously beyond the touch of death bursting into ashes – _I knew it!_

When Merlin finally told him, Arthur was going to honour him to the point that Merlin would either finally gain some weight from all the feasts in his honour or would melt out of embarrassment from the speeches.

But Arthur was getting ahead of himself. There would be plenty of time for feasts and declarations of friendship and whatnot later.

Right now, his magical manservant had given him the only thing he really needed to re-take his throne; the will to do it.  
>And it was all thanks to Merlin.<p>

**X**

"But Morgana… her power is so great, and we've got nothing to answer it with."

Arthur saw the flicker on Merlin's face out of the corner of his eye.

_Come on, Merlin. Trust me._

It hurt a little bit, to know that Merlin didn't trust him.

Although, Arthur realised, Merlin did trust him. He trusted him with every part of him except that secret, because it was easier this way, Arthur being the oblivious prat and Merlin scuttling about fixing everything while no-one was looking.

And Arthur hadn't exactly given Merlin a reason to trust him with _that_.

How many times had Arthur nodded along with his father, spoken words only half-believed to gain approval, said to Merlin's face that he was pure evil?

Merlin had probably been more scared than Arthur could comprehend.

But not once had Merlin betrayed him, or strayed from his path. Arthur felt a little giddy at that thought.

He had the absolute loyalty of a man who could take him to pieces with a glare; Merlin hadn't been lying when they'd first met.

**X**

Arthur already knew that Merlin had been talking out of his backside when it came to the sword's origins and its purpose in the stone. But it seemed that this third part of the 'legend' that Merlin had 'neglected' to mention was no fabrication.

Merlin really did believe that Arthur Pendragon would be the greatest king who would ever live.

The question that plagued Arthur was – and he was starting to get annoyed with himself for thinking about Merlin when he should have been focusing entirely on the upcoming battle – what did that make Merlin?

Merlin's motivations were seemingly clear, now; he _wanted_ Arthur to become the greatest king of all time, unite Albion, and if he was lucky, free magic. All in good time. But that left the question of Merlin's own destiny; surely someone as powerful as he would be spoken of in legend, not just his king?

Was Merlin's destiny to be his shadowy power behind the throne for the rest of his life? Or would he stand beside Arthur as an equal, and would they smite _their_ enemies together instead of Merlin subtly disposing of _Arthur's_ in the background?

Was he a guide or a guardian, or both?

Arthur decided that even if destiny tried to tie Merlin down to the role of anonymous protector forever, he would drag his ridiculously loyal manservant to the forefront, and _make him both_.

**X**

Arthur watched Merlin sitting by a campfire in the huge camp that had sprung up in the forest; all the forces loyal to Camelot, who Merlin had brought together, somehow.

He had a thoughtful expression on his face, possibilities flickering through his head as fast as his eyes danced. And then, a small, grim smile crept up on his face, and with that, Merlin sprang up and walked out of the camp, towards Camelot. Arthur followed him as though making a tour of his men.

He watched as Merlin dropped into a crouch, and crept through the forest with a practiced, stealthy gait.

**X**

Arthur found a bundle of black leathers wrapped up in a raggedy black cloak beneath a tree on the edge of the camp, while going to do that thing that even kings need to do in the morning.

He got the feeling that Merlin could take back Camelot single-handedly if he wanted to.

**X**

"You know, this thing's not bad."  
>"Thought you might like it."<p>

_You should know, Merlin, you defeated an army with it._

**X**

"You cannot blame me for my father's sins."

Because that's what they were. Sins. Crimes that, at the end of the day, were the root of this whole problem.

"It's a little late for that. You've made it perfectly clear how you feel about me and my kind."  
>Arthur said nothing. He'd made it clear how he'd once felt, perhaps. But expressing how he felt now was a different matter. It had only been a few days. Not long enough for the king's change of heart to spread to every part of the realm and beyond.<p>

"I'm going to enjoy killing you, Arthur Pendragon."

She was pale, paler than Merlin.

Her eyes had always been intense and piercing, but now they were brimming with malevolent glee that was almost painful to look at.

She'd lost weight; her black, lacy dress clung tight to her diminished curves, still there despite a diet of whatever happened to be nearby and edible while she hid out in the forest.

She was still beautiful, and still so very dangerous, but even more so now that she didn't need a sword or words to beat him.

What had happened to her?

"_Hleap on baec!"_

Nothing happened.

"_Hleap on baec!"_

The witch tried again, desperately. Arthur glanced over both shoulders; Tristan, Isolde, Guinevere and Merlin were all unaffected.  
>Merlin was desperately fighting a smile.<p>

_Whatever you were up to last night, Merlin, it's worked._

"Not so powerful now, my lady."

Arthur's last coherent thought before the _parry-lunge-parry _one-note battle mentality kicked in was how it was that Helios had decided to remain behind and protect Morgana.

Loyalty, indeed.

**X**

"Enter." Arthur called out.

It couldn't be Merlin; Merlin never knocked, and was off doing Merlinny things.

It wasn't Guinevere; she had already gone to move her things to the castle.

It was, in fact, Gaius.

"Sire."  
>The old physician was back in the peak of health courtesy of an enormous meal and a few hours sleep, though he had a sturdy stick that kept getting in the way of his medicine bag. It was a small price to pay for not falling over and lying around in the hallway until someone considerate came along.<p>

"Merlin said you were injured in the siege?"

Arthur knew better than to argue.

So while Gaius clucked over Arthur's ribs, he placed the little singed doll of straw upon the bed where the two men sat.

"I found this under Morgana's bed when I went to retrieve my papers from her chambers."

Gaius tied off the bandages with a flourish, and took the little doll in hand, walking over to a candle and examining closely.

"It is a poppet, sire. It is a crude image of humanity, linked to a specific person. Almost any magic cast upon this doll will have the same effect on the person it is linked to."

Gaius looked at Arthur, eyebrow disappearing into his silver hairline.

"You found this beneath Morgana's bed?"

Arthur nodded.

"Did you notice anything unusual when you confronted her?"

"She seemed unable to use her magic…"  
>"Ah. That confirms my suspicions." Gaius held out the burnt poppet to Arthur once more. "There is a powerful enchantment upon this poppet; it dissipates any magic gathered to cast a spell once released, causing the spell to fail."<p>

Arthur nodded again, taking the poppet back and turning it over in his hands.

"Then we have a lot to thank Emrys for."

Gaius looked at him, blankly.

Arthur caught his eye.

"Right before she tried to kill us, Morgana said that not even Emrys could save us. But I think he already had, and not for the first time. His handiwork is everywhere, if you look hard enough."

Gaius regarded the young king for a few moments, clasping his hands before him.

"So you understand what I said to you when I was kidnapped, sire?"

"I thought I did. But I should have known that you always have a larger message than your words initially suggest."

"Sire?"

Arthur turned to the window, where by chance or by design – _destiny_ – Merlin could be seen walking across the courtyard.

"I will ask you not to tell him about this conversation, Gaius. I want him to come to me, when he knows he has nothing to fear from me. When he, the greatest of them all, no longer fears me, then the rest will know I mean them no harm."

Arthur turned back around, to catch Gaius in the act of wiping a tear away.

"He would be so happy to hear you say that, sire."

"I know."

**X**

"You asked to see us, sire?"

Arthur glanced up from his new sword at his most trusted knights as they filed into the room.

"Yes, I did. When we come under attack by any threats of a magical nature or when we are simply outnumbered, I am implementing a change in tactics. I would like you all to feign unconsciousness at the first possible opportunity."

Many a confused glance was shared by the knights, and Arthur's smile grew a little smugger.

"And when you are pretending to be unconscious, if you hear Merlin shouting in a language you do not understand or see him pointing at things, then do not react and carry on as though he has _not _saved all of our ungrateful asses with _powerful _magic, because he _has not_. Do I make myself clear?"

The wide-eyed knights nodded meekly, and shuffled out.

The king contemplated the pile of clothes resting on his desk; something new and clean for Merlin to wear at his wedding.

Until his sorcerer came clean so they could get on with this destiny business, there wasn't much Arthur could do to reward him for his impeccable service without seeming suspect.

The clothes hadn't come cheap; but Merlin's undying, unwavering, unflinching loyalty and friendship was worth much more, but until then he'd have to settle for some new threads.

Arthur was already thinking of bringing Gwen in to rustle up some embarrassing robes.

**FIN.**


	2. Cowardice

**Cowardice:**

_In Which the Traitor Uncle Agravaine Is Not Quite as Dead as He Would Have Us Believe, and Reveals an Unexpected Agenda of His Own, Hidden From Even His Dark Mistress, the Lady Morgana_

**X**

"When they arrived there the ground itself was still on fire. They'd all been slaughtered, every last one of them."

"And Agravaine?"

"Barely alive." Helios replied, grimly. "He's recovering as we speak."

The witch queen cursed.

"There's only one person who could have done this, only one man who could command a dragon!"

She stalked away, and Helios saw for the first time the scared young woman coming through the melting mask of the ice queen.

"This is the work of Emrys."

Even if Morgana wasn't clearly shit-scared of this Emrys, then Helios would have been wary regardless. Any man who could bend a dragon to his will commanded a fighting power as great as an army and the wisdom and intellect of a hundred sages.

Helios began to wonder if he should have been paying more attention to the practicalities of this venture instead of the Lady Morgana's tits.

**X**

Gaius scowled as he glanced up to see Morgana sashay into Agravaine's chambers.

"Now, now, Gaius." She crooned, trailing a finger across his chin from which the old man recoiled slightly. "Your belly is full for dear Agravaine's sake. If I did not require your skills, you would still be relying on Gwaine to sing for your supper."

"My gratitude to my lady knows no bounds." The physician replied dryly as he tied off the linen wrappings binding the sizeable lump at the back of Agravaine's head. "As for 'dear Agravaine', he has been extraordinarily lucky; half of his ribs are broken, and he will suffer from pains in the neck and head for a long time. His back will ail him for the rest of his life. But he is alive."

He looked sideways at her. "Such is the wrath of Emrys."

The witch queen looked up sharply from the sleeping and still form of Agravaine.

"What do you know of Emrys?" She demanded.

"Exactly what you hired Alator to find out, and more."

A dagger flashed in the candlelight as it found its way to Gaius's sagging throat. He swallowed, but did not flinch, and looked Morgana in the eye. He raised an eyebrow, and some part of Morgana that was still the little girl who ran crying to him with scraped knees quailed beneath that calm, appraising gaze, of a man who had everything to fear but didn't.

"Alator of the Catha turned against you because of what I told him."

"And what was that?" Morgana hissed in reply.

"Only that Emrys is the powerful sorcerer to walk the earth. That he will bring peace to Albion and restore magic's freedom."

"And who is he? Why does he protect Camelot? Tell me!"

Gaius chuckled, a dry rasping noise that only infuriated the sorceress as she pressed the point of her blade to the old man's throat.

"You'll get nothing from me, Morgana, so don't waste your time. You can set your Nathair to work if you like, but I am old and weak; I would die before I could tell you anything, even if I wanted to."

Morgana growled and withdrew, defeated, hands tightening like dead, pale spiders around her dagger.

"Inform me when he wakes." She hissed, and swept from the chamber in a flourish of black lace and blacker mood.

**X**

So it was that under the ministrations of Gaius, ever loath to cause the death of another, even a traitor, and with the promise of food for Gwaine and Elyan, Agravaine recovered to a reasonable state of health. As reasonable as can be expected for a man who was thrown like a ragdoll through the air by telekinetic blasts that should have killed him.

By the time Arthur came to usurp the traitor queen and reclaim his throne, Agravaine was fit enough to stand beside Morgana and Helios in the throne room of Camelot as its true king returned to claim his throne.

**X**

"_Not even Emrys can save you now! _Hlaep ond baec_!"_

_Nothing happened._

"_It seems, my Lady," Agravaine began, slowly, "that he already has."_

_And he lunged._

"I've failed you, Arthur. I'm nothing but a failure and a coward."

"Why, uncle?"

"I went to her to get revenge on Uther. For all his crimes… and for your mother. So I helped her kill him. I won't apologise for it; he deserved the end she gave him. But after that, she wouldn't let me go, and I feared too much for my own life to refuse her anything. I wanted to be the trusted uncle and watch you grow into a great king, but I was too craven to break away from Morgana and leave her to plotting and lies. And now, when I finally had the courage and opportunity both to end her, I failed again. I've failed you."

"Uncle… who is Emrys? What did you and Morgana mean?"

"Emrys… is a very powerful sorcerer. I suspect he had some hand in her magic failing her; it wouldn't surprise me, as it is he who sabotaged all of her plans, when I was too cowardly to do so myself. Morgana believes that he is her mortal enemy; she has seen him as an old man, but I know his true face."

"Who?"

"I shall not tell you, Arthur. Even though he has deceived you every day that you have known him, for your sake and his, he has defended you tirelessly. So much better than I ever could. He should tell you himself. I owe him that, for keeping you safe."

"And if I should need to find him? If I need his aid?"

"He is closer than you think. He is within the court in Camelot, watching over you and the whole kingdom. If you believe nothing else I have said, then please believe me now; you can trust him. You already trust him, though you only know him by his true name. For the love of god, Arthur, when he is revealed, trust him despite his lies, because if you do not, there will be no-one left to protect you from Morgana, and Camelot will fall to her forever."

Arthur is silent. But as images of flames rearing unnaturally spring forth in his mind, hazy memories of a beast screaming its death knell as blue fire rends it from within, of an orb of light glowing with a promise of safety, and a voice calling him from a damp demise in a lake, of dragons he couldn't remember slaying and immortal armies vanishing and too many convenient escapes, Arthur thinks that for the first time since his uncle returned to Camelot under the pretence of supporting him, he isn't lying.

He has a guardian angel.

"For all that I've done, Arthur, know that I love you. You are your mother's son, not your father's, however much you try to be. And that is why I could never truly turn against you for Morgana, for all my cowardice."

The traitor's eyes flicker away from the king's, and lock onto someone else's. He nods.

Before the shut-fast doors, the one called Emrys nods back.

And with that, the traitor, coward, and failure who earned redemption in his last moments, breathes out one last time and stills in his nephew's arms.

Despite himself, Arthur cries.

**X**

Gaius tells him the truth of the matter when he asks. He shows him the pendant and explains the deadly curse upon it. Arthur touches it and feels the bone-numbing chill of the enchantment and Morgana's hate. And Arthur asks why Gaius didn't tell him before.

"As far as you were concerned, magic had killed your father, and that was good enough for you. It didn't matter who or how, just that it was a sorcerer responsible. It was like looking at your father at the beginning of the Purge all over again." The old man sighs.

"So my father would be alive were it not for Morgana?"

"His time was nearing an end, sire. I cannot say how long he would have lived. But truly, he died when he realised she had betrayed us all. Had he lived, he would have lived on in that state. In a way, it was a mercy."

Another thought springs to Arthur's mind.

"And the old man who tried to save him… he's Emrys, isn't he?"

Gaius looks at him sharply, unreadable.

"Who?"

"Before he died, Agravaine told me there was a sorcerer named Emrys protecting Camelot. A man who had foiled all of Morgana's plots, who she believed was an old man. But Agravaine said that was just a disguise, that he had seen who he really was."

Something like panic flashes across Gaius's eyes.

"And so have you, Gaius."

Gaius purses his lips, and looks away for a second.

"I won't deny it, sire," he begins, "I know exactly who he is and his purpose in life. I've seen his power with my own eyes, power greater than Camelot has ever seen. You are very lucky to have such a man on your side."

"Do I get a name?"

"That is for him to tell you when you both are ready."

**X**

It isn't until after the wedding, until Gwen is overseeing the decoration of the queen's chambers that etiquette demands – no matter that the newly crowned Queen Guinevere has no intention of using them – until after the wounded have been seen to and papers put in order and servants and craftsmen sent scurrying to work to put things right, and the grain stores are opened to re-seed the scorched fields, until the blood is washed away and Agravaine's body – torn open by Helios in his attempt to kill Morgana – is burnt and buried with so many others, until Arthur is alone in his chambers with Merlin that he finally breaks.

And Merlin, as always, is right.

**X**

"He was your last real family."

With his tears staining the shoulders of Merlin's new jacket, Arthur nods.

His words, muffled by Merlin shoulder – still bony, for all the padding in this new jacket – and his own sobs, are indistinct, but distinctly miserable.

"Hmm?" Merlin asks he rocks Arthur gently from side to side, humming something soothing he heard in a tavern once.

"Yes. Morgana's lost to us, she killed my – _our_ – father, my mother is long-dead, all my uncles are gone…"

Another fit of sobbing takes him.

Arthur has never been one for physical affection beyond back-patting and thumps, but right now that's what he needs, and Merlin, ever-adaptable to his king's moods, is well equipped to deal with this sudden outburst.

He doesn't care if Merlin sees him like this. Not even Guinevere, his true love and his queen, can ever see him like this. For everyone else, even her, he can be just Arthur but he also has to be the king. And a king must be strong. Whatever Agravaine said in his dying moments, Uther was right about that at least.

But for Merlin, loyal to a fault, who saved Camelot when he somehow gathered Arthur's scattered forces to the sword in the stone and gave his king faith again, after all they've been through together, Arthur is allowed to be both Arthur and weak. Because Merlin is strong, stronger than any man Arthur knows, and he has picked him up, dusted him down, scolded him half-heartedly and sent him on his way each and every time.

"I'm all alone now. My family are all dead."

And at that Merlin pushes him away, and jabs him in the chest.

"Shut up, idiot. You have a family. _I'm_ your family."

"Presumptuous idiot." Arthur sniffles.

_I know_.

And now that he thinks about, yes, Merlin _is_ family. He is a wise big brother (who is somehow younger than his little brother) who cleans up little Arthur's messes before mummy and daddy get home and puts up with tantrums.

Merlin draws him back into a hug.

"And you have Gaius. And all the knights. And Gwen! We'll be having a Prat Junior running around soon. As if my job wasn't hard enough…"

"Maybe Merlin Junior can be his manservant one day."

Arthur says, weakly, smiling into Merlin's shoulder.  
>Arthur knows when Merlin goes completely still for a second that he's hit on an old wound – perhaps more than one – that Merlin would rather forget about, and there's a sudden moment of silence spinning between them.<br>"Uncle Merlin is staying away from marriage for the foreseeable future."

His voice is a little pained, and Arthur's surprised he's never heard that pain before, the kind of pain that only comes from losing a loved one.

Arthur pulls his head back, and looks at his friend questioningly with tear-reddened eyes.

Little clear drops bead at the corner of Merlin's eyes, old and sad and blue, and he says, "I've lost people as well, Arthur."

As the two men stand there, finding comfort in each other's arms that only an old friend can give, Arthur can't help but wonder what other secrets his manservant is hiding.

He knew about Agravaine, no matter how much he tried to soften the blow for Arthur. Now that Arthur thinks about it, he knew about Morgana as well; only now, without a head clouded by grief and anger at seeing his sister sit the throne of Camelot does he remember how unsurprised Merlin was.

Merlin always knows, and always warns Arthur, and Arthur never listens, and then things always turn out alright in the end.

As if by magic.

"Merlin?"

"Mm-hmm?"

"Do you know who Emrys is?"

The way Merlin tenses up again says it all.

"Er, who?" he stammers.

"The sorcerer Agravaine told me of in his dying moments, who supposedly protects us all from the likes of Morgana."

"Er…"

Arthur pulls back, and for the third time, asks, "Do I get a name?"

Merlin looks him steadily in the eye, blank-faced as Gaius was, and replies, "He wants to tell you. But not until you are ready for such a shock."

Then he smirks a little, as if he knows something no-one else does.

And that's when Arthur knows everything I going to be alright.

He has Camelot once more. He has the sword of legend in his hand. He has Guinevere as his queen. He has Merlin, as he always has.

And now he has the guardian angel that he, apparently, has always had.

So Arthur breathes in and dispels the last of the tears.

He won't be a coward like his father was, like his uncle. His father's cowardice is the root of all their problems today, his legacy, and Arthur resolves never to be like that, to never take his rage out on his people – good, innocent people – when the blame is his own.

Because Uther was wrong; kings are still men, and men are accountable, and men can often be cowards.

**FIN.**


	3. Love

_**EDIT: Plot bunny poll on profile now fixed!**_

_**MOAR EDIT: Sequel now posted.**_

**Love:**

_In Which the Smuggler Tristan Mourns the Death of His Beloved Isolde, and Receives Comfort From Another Who Lost His True Love to Camelot; Namely, the Warlock Merlin_

**X**

The rugged smuggler was speechless for a few seconds .Breathlessly, he turned to his silent companion and asked, "What is this place?"

Merlin smiled sadly, some kind of deep melancholy Tristan had glimpsed briefly in his eyes in swimming up to the surface of those usually cheerful blue orbs.

"This is the Lake of Avalon."

**X**

Tristan had been sceptical when Merlin had suggested that he lay Isolde to rest in a beautiful lake out in the forest. How Merlin had managed to make him capitulate, Tristan couldn't remember, but it didn't matter.

As soon as Merlin had led him from the treeline and onto the slight promontory curving outwards into the mirror-blue of the lake, he knew that the servant had been right.

This place, the Lake of _Avalon_ no less, as Merlin claimed, was the most beautiful of all the sights that had graced Tristan's eyes. And as a smuggler and n'er-do-well, he'd seen many a pretty thing in his life.

The rare herbs with odd properties and odder colours that he carried in his wagon, useful only to the right people had nothing on the swelling greens of the ancient trees or the bright but not obtrusive stabs of colour that were the flowers clustered on the banks and curling up gnarled trunks.

There was no statue as perfectly sculpted as the pale twin peaks curving gracefully to snow-capped points above the trees, the only sign that there was a world beyond this clearing and the silent lake it sheltered.

No rare sapphires could match the waters of Avalon, blue and clear but strangely bottomless all at once, reflecting the sky from a distance but nothing up close, dark in its depths but somehow light and filled with life but without the sounds of mortal creatures scuttling around to shatter the ethereal peace of this place. Tristan was reminded oddly of Merlin's eyes when he looked at those waters.

Tristan had thought, as one usually does of their true love, that there would be no place of rest good enough for Isolde.

But Merlin had found somewhere worthy of the woman who had ensnared his heart and given him hers, right from their first meeting.

**X**

"It hurts. It will for a long time. Nothing can change that, and nothing anyone says will make it hurt any less. But at least you can visit her in a place as beautiful as she was to you."

Tristan took a deep breath, and let it out again, blowing out everything that had built up since Isolde had been taken from him. He couldn't simply let go of his love for her, steadily built up to something bright and overwhelming that left him with a spinning head after every kiss and shared smile, or his sadness, deep and slow and everything his love wasn't, but he could at least smile again, and try to move on.

So, for the first time in two days, Tristan cracked a smile.

"Are you saying she wasn't beautiful to you?"

For the first time since they'd set out on this solemn journey to the Gateway Waters, Merlin smiled as well.

"Your true love is more beautiful to you than anyone else."

With one last tear-glazed look at the lake, Merlin turned and trudged back to the trees, and life.

Tristan shuffled forwards to the shore, suddenly filled by a strange compulsion to look closely at that blue mirror that knew no ripple.

Even where the water met the land, he couldn't see the bottom, so unearthly was the blue of the lake. And as he watched, the waters darkened further still; quite suddenly, a face swam up from the depths.

_Isolde_.

His Isolde, dead and cold at the bottom of a lake but somehow still here, still warm and beautiful and where he could see her. The smuggler gasped for breath, unable to contain his laughter.

Beneath the water, Isolde smiled back, returning his laughter but without sound, and held up her palm, pressed to the surface as though it was a pane of glass. Tristan finally unfroze himself and placed his palm down on the surface, just brushing the water, as though plunging his whole hand in would disturb this wondrous illusion and take Isolde away from him forever.

Where his hand and hers touched, there was a warm tingle, without the pressure of loving contact; but it was enough.

She was dead, but she was here, a part of this place, and she always would be.

Beneath the water, Isolde's smile became smaller, more regretful, and she withdrew her hand. Beside her, a girl in a purple dress, with cherry red lips and dark hair appeared, placing a gentle hand on Isolde's shoulder.

The two women smiled at each other, each in perfect understanding with the other, and vanished.

Then the water cleared and was just water again, the bottom of the shallows clearly visible.

Tristan didn't realise he was crying until the first tear became a ripple and joined with the lake.

He stood and turned back to find Merlin staring at him with a haunting intensity that vanished as soon as he'd noticed it. Merlin smiled sadly, and disappeared into the trees.

Tristan got the feeling that Merlin knew exactly what Tristan had seen in the lake. Perhaps he even knew what miracle had shown him his Isolde, and the dark haired girl who Tristan now realised was the reason Merlin had understood his pain, the reason he knew exactly what Tristan was going through as the light faded from Isolde's eyes.

He hadn't stated that he too had loved and lost; he hadn't needed to. But there it was, proof in the water, in the form of a beautiful young woman cruelly ripped from the man who loved her.

Merlin hadn't spoken of her for a reason, and Tristan would respect that. He knew Merlin well enough now to know that Merlin always had a reason.

**X**

And then as they ambled back to Camelot in silence, a thought struck him, a sudden realisation that appeared in his mind with a blinding flash, one that almost had him laughing.

Tristan had heard many stories and legends during his time on the road; tales and myths and prophecies, some of them nonsense, some of them kicking his brain into thought.

The tale of Avalon, the Lake of Life and Death, the gateway to the spirit world, was the oldest; and as is often the case with such things, the least corrupted and altered by the passage of time and telling.

Avalon was a place glimpsed only when you stood on the knife's edge between life and death, teetering on the cliff of mortality; a place where magic was stronger than anywhere, even the fabled Isle of the Blessed, where lands beyond the mortal realm could be breached.

No mere man simply stumbled across Avalon.  
>Tristan couldn't resist asking.<p>

"Merlin?"

"Hmm?"  
>"How did you find… Avalon?"<p>

Merlin shrugged his non-committal shrug that – Tristan had noticed – signified he wasn't going to tell the full truth of the matter.

"Picking herbs."

Now _that _was a lie.  
>The legends stated quite clearly that no mortal could ever lay eyes upon the Lake of Avalon before their time on earth was over. Tristan was certain, absolutely certain, that the place Merlin had led him to was Avalon. So Tristan himself was breaking the rules by walking from the Lake of Life and Death with his life, but the real question was what did that make Merlin, who claimed to have stumbled upon it?<p>

**X**

The next day, the path still fresh in his mind, Tristan set out to test a theory he'd developed quite suddenly in a flash of inspiration before laying down to sleep.

He'd done some thinking, partly to keep his mind off Isolde and partly out of habit; there was some part of Tristan that, when presented with a riddle or a question, would press him to investigate and find an answer. He loved riddles, loved picking them apart and finding every meaning, every scrap of information and titbit and hint, until he knew everything there was to know. It was what made him follow Arthur Pendragon; not just because Merlin could treat Isolde's wounds, but to find out why people like Merlin and Guinevere, paragons of various virtues in their own right, would diligently and happily follow a man so much more flawed than themselves.

In the end, he got the answer to that question, and as soon as he had shaken off the haze induced by the beauty of Avalon and the overwhelming sadness brought on by his last sighting of Isolde, he had found another.

_Who is Merlin? What is he?_

A man who could simply wander and stumble across the Lake of Avalon had to be something _more_.

Tristan intended to prove that theory.

So, carefully memorising every landmark as he went, the smuggler approached the place he knew Avalon to be – and found that he couldn't get to it.

Oh yes, it was definitely _there_. Tristan knew that if he craned his head just that bit higher he would glimpse jewel-blue waters, that if he brushed past that bush he would find a silence so great nothing could break it, but he simply couldn't get that bit higher or brush past that bush.

The Lake remained ahead of him, that silence and those waters hidden from his mortal eyes and ears, out of sight and out of reach.

**X**

So a week later, when Merlin was out picking herbs for Gaius to replenish his depleted stores, Tristan tagged along, feigning that he had forgotten how to get to the resting place of his beloved, and would Merlin please show him how to get there again.

The cheerful young man obliged, chattering inanely and stopping to pluck something medicinal from the forest floor every now and then, completely oblivious to Tristan's experiment.

And there it was. Both the lake, and confirmation.

Tristan was painfully aware of his own mortality, being a few years past the stage of life where 'sprightly' was an appropriate description. He was unable to find the lake without Merlin, who, it seemed, could come and go when he pleased.

Merlin wasn't mortal, Tristan concluded, not truly; maybe not _immortal_, and testing _that_ theory was something best left to dark sorcerers with a fondness for blood soaked altars and runny candles. But he was something else entirely. A man and something more.

What that something was, Tristan could not say; but he had no plans to move on from Camelot any time soon, not while there was a roof over his head so long as he helped clean up. Maybe he could find a job in the city; settle down like he always planned to, minus the woman he loved.

Maybe, just maybe, if he stayed, he'd find out what made Merlin different from everyone else.

Because Merlin was a riddle.

And now that Isolde was gone, Tristan's great love was riddles.

**FIN.**

_**A/N;**_ **EDIT: **_**SEQUEL NOW POSTED.**_

There. Boom. It is done. Thank you to all those who reviewed, and all those who favourited, alerted, or whatever; I am most pleased that you were pleased enough to do so.

Alas, this work of mine is now done and closed, so bid Loyalty, Cowardice, and Love farewell, and look out for anything else I send sailing down the Straits of Musedom.

Plot bunny poll now on profile! Please vote now, if it's no trouble.

**Doc'**


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